


Blame It On The Fritz

by NinaBulstrode



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, F/F, F/M, M/M, Redemption, Slash, Top Harry Potter, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 10:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinaBulstrode/pseuds/NinaBulstrode
Summary: A story about change, The Land of the Free Elves, a fight for Lycanthropy, and a Harry Potter obsessed with Draco's long hair. It's really much better than it sounds.





	Blame It On The Fritz

Potter was a madman.

Finally, this was proven true when a very rude owl dropped the morning post in Draco's bowl of porridge and cream.

It was a plebian breakfast, but Fritz had come down with a cold and Draco wanted him nowhere near any sort of food when he his had his nose dripping, attempting to cough discreetly as he fisted at eyes coated with crust. So Draco managed on his own. He had half a mind to summon Fritz anyway, if only for someone there with him as he processed the news.

The headline emblazoned on the front page of the Daily Prophet was typically theatrical. Explosion in Muggle London. Is the Savior of the Wizarding World Now Our Danger???

Even he knew that was bullshit.

He doubted Potter could even manage to throw a Crup a dirty look. Of course vanquishing a dark and powerful doer of evil required one to be a little mean, but really, he defeated the Dark Lord with an Expelliarmus. The only threat he posed to the world, Muggle, magical or otherwise was utter boredom. But that didn’t mean he wasn't insane.  
Or powerful.

Draco Malfoy knew very well the damage an of ill sound and mind Potter was capable of, and he gazed upon the moving picture under the title with no small amount of glee.

Photography had improved after the War, he thought.

The photo showed a clear view of a particularly gloomy set of townhouses, squashed together in a dilapidated Muggle neighborhood, all very dull and nondescript except for the roof of one being on fire, the flames bright and angry. Thick, dark smoke billowed out from shattered windows and up into the sky, so much so that it blocked out the sun, and cast the neighborhood into a grey world that rained cinders and ash.

Draco knew that this was an ancestral home of the Blacks, one that Potter saw fit to hole himself up in and didn’t that just sting. His testimonies during the trials immediately after the war might have saved the Malfoy's from imprisonment, even his father, who, after he departed this earth had surely gone straight to hell, but it didn’t save their livelihood.

The Manor, infamously forever known as just that, The Manor, had been confiscated and wrapped under Ministry beauracracy for years. Now, it was nothing more than museum that no one visited. The art, the fine furnishings, the books and the lands, all had been taken.

  
Malfoy holdings were relinquished and their vast vaults had been emptied. War reparations this act of brutality had been called, but if those galleons actually made it to the poor impoverished victims of war and not into the pockets of the Wizengamot for their own personal or political endeavors, Draco would shove a Wizard Wheezes firecracker down his throat.

If he could admit it to himself, which he often did when a maudlin mood struck him, Lucius's death had been a devastating blessing in disguise.

His mother had been able to move to France and establish herself in the uppercrust of society overseas with relative ease. A perk of lying to the Dark Lord's face, he supposed.

The death of his father had been hard on her, and despite seeming too composed and aloof with one another in public, they had always been deeply in love. On that final night, during the final battle at Hogwarts, Draco expected to die that night, expected never to see his parents again. If he was honest with himself, which he wasn’t sometimes, he would admit that he wanted to.

  
Many things flitted through his mind as he recalled the showdown in the Room of Hidden Things, back when things had gone horribly wrong. Thousands of thoughts and images, quick and sharp, that sent the pain of what seemed like a thousand tiny knives poking holes into his heart. In the breath of a moment he could recall everything he loved, everything he did and worse, everything that he didn’t.

The last time he could recall himself being happy was his Fifth year of school, months before his father’s arrest, when he would sit with Pansy by the Great Lake, making cutting remarks about whoever walked by. Or scolding Crabbe and Goyle for neglecting their studies, his gold glimmering O a vivid contrast to the red T's on their Charms homework.

These were Juvenile satisfactions. Unbeknownst to him, he would later fall into such despair, that even death seemed forgiving.

But then Potter had to go and pull a fast one, doing his hero shit in textbook form, a Gryffindor cliché swooping in to save the day, probably shouting, “Fuck you Death” in his head as he swooped Draco up like a stubborn Quaffle before carrying him off to safety.

And so here was his existence, ‘The Little Death Eater who Couldn’t’ as he had been maliciously called for several weeks in the Prophet at one point, made do with the small one bedroom flat over his apothecary the remnants of the Malfoy fortune had been able to afford. On better fate , perhaps it would have been he that resided in the home of his ancestors however crazy they were. But no, Potter could happily keep it.

The dry, brown lawn was scattered with glass and refuse and there stood Harry Potter among the wreckage, looking oddly helpless for a Dark Lord exterminator. But then photo Potter jolts, as if he’d just noticed the horde of journalists snapping his photo and he scowls right into the camera, reaches for the inside of his sleeve and pulls his wand out, a manic gleam in his eye…

The article deliberated wildly about the cause of the explosion but not nearly as much as Potter's out of place and inflamed reaction to the unsuspecting innocents of the press, which was what this was really about.

The accident had been clearly magical and not the case of Potter perhaps leaving something unattended on the hob. Whatever the catastrophe, it was Potter's attack that was the real news today.

  
Draco laughed himself silly when several sources reiterated the sensation of being flung from the premises, landing several or more blocks away onto the porches of confused Muggles. One journalist even found himself on the tall spire of a church dangling by his robes.

It was a PR nightmare.

  
The Muggle authorities were involved; the chaos written off as a gas leak, whatever that meant. Did Muggles possess the ability of explosive flatulence? But that wasn’t enough to explain the crowd of robed individuals with cameras and quills suddenly being catapulted across the sky. The team of Obliviators that had been called in weren’t pleased and one even left a scathing remark. If Potter could do this, what else could he do?

Draco tossed the Prophet aside.

It wasn’t so funny anymore, nothing ever was nowadays.

  
Every day at five he woke up, attended his small potions shop, spine straight but head bowed low as he rung up the customers that were not scared or simply unbothered to be shopping at the storefront of a former Death Eater. Luckily Draco was very good at what he did. He was excellent at what he did.

  
He and Fritz were making enough for food and ingredients, and small pleasures like warm winter robes and his admittedly frilly but well crafted antique tea set. He wasn’t rich anymore, not yet at least, but perhaps that would change if his new experiment actually worked.

  
Draco had sent many applications to apprentice under potions experts over the years. All had been rejected. It hurt for a time, but Draco had far succeeded what he thought he could ever be capable of. He didn’t need a plaque or the white lined purple robes of a graduate to tell him that he was indeed a Potions Master.

He vanished way the remnants of his unfinished breakfast and went to his lab downstairs. Potter was pushed from his mind in his excitement. Sundays were Brew Days. The storefront would be closed, but owls were still able to drop off post orders.

He’s surprised to see Fritz. The elf looked tired but he was polishing a set of vials that had just come in from Peru. They were carved from obsidian, a dire but necessary expense and they shone in the dim light. When Fritz spotted him, the elf's large ears tilted back in defiance.

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Fritz thinks it is boring to be resting. Fritz is needing to keep busy.”

“By polishing expensive potionware with your snot?” Draco snorted. “I’ll be redoing those later anyway.”

Fritz shrugged. Any other House Elf would have thrown a fit over this, offended at the dig about the quality of their work, but Fritz had been free for some time now.

Greyback had a fondness for torturing the house elves during his stay in the Manor, ‘midnight snacks’ he had called them.

When the third body of an elf was found mangled on the stairs, his old nanny no less, fed up, Draco recovered a fistful of old baby booties and stuffed them into the uncooperative hands of the remaining elves and told them to scram. They were unworthy if they couldn’t be bothered or be smart enough to keep themselves out of the way.  
So the House Elves disappeared.

  
His parents noticed, The Dark Lord noticed, Greyback definitely noticed, but no one ever said anything. There had been plenty of victims to go around during that time that were much more entertaining than mere house elves. Draco never thought about them since. But then one morning he woke up and there was Fritz, making him breakfast in his tiny flat as if nothing had happened.

Fritz was a strange one. He wasn’t one for simpering or hysterics which pleased Draco the moment he found that out, and he had a keen eye that paired well with his sullen demeanor.

“Master should be paying attention to his potions and lets Fritz be handling himself.”

He also had a mouth on him, but that suited Draco fine. He didn’t mind a little backbone.

Still, it was sound advice and Draco took it, marched over to his pristine station and removed the protective spells that were in place in case of any unexpected and volatile reactions. However the three, small silver cauldrons were simmering quietly.

 

Draco inspected the first one and waved his wand to produce a quill for his journal. Anyone would think that brewing Wolfsbane in silver cauldrons was a stupid, even a cruel thing to do, and the reason for that was obvious. But Draco had a hunch as to why werewolves were allergic to silver. Despite being called a curse, Lycanthropy was actually an ailment of the blood. His laboratory didn’t just consist of bubbling cauldrons, stirring rods, and jars. A Muggle microscope sat in the corner enhanced by a few charms.

It wasn’t hard to get werewolf blood. At least, he didn’t think so. When he relayed his frustration about procuring a sample for his microscope, Fritz only blinked at him once, slowly, then disappeared. When he returned, he did it with a full vial of blood and a black eye. The look he gave Draco shriveled up any questions he wanted to ask.

Silver was poison to werewolves. But in all poisons lay an antidote. If he was correct in his endeavors, the potion would absorb the magical properties of the silver cauldron without the actual element, as long as he took care not to scratch the sides when he stirred.

Wolfsbane could not stop a transformation, nor the pain, but it left a person in control of their mind instead of succumbing to the violent wolf inside. That wasn’t enough.

Draco couldn’t cure Lycanthropy, but he thought he could tweak it. It was controversial, to make a Wolfsbane that would also allow werewolves to be immune to silver, but it was also a goldmine. The post war world still carried a stigma about werewolves, after all a lot had defected to the side of Dark Lord, but there had been heroes too, and innocents not involved in the war at all.

His goal wasn't to make werewolves invincible, but it was a definite perk. But, in these cauldrons and the decision to substitute Phoenix feathers with Chimaera hair, Draco thought that he could at least get rid of the pain of transformation. All top quality healing draughts were made in silver and Chimera’s paid homage to the moon.

Perhaps, after being bathed in full moonlight for the next couple months it could activate the hair, and the result would be fluidity. No longer would werewolves have to cater to the cycles of the moon. They could transform as they pleased, not dissimilar to an Animagus. It would have to be injected and transfused into the bloodstream, something most wizards would balk against, but this was no oral remedy. But at least, after said transfusion, it wouldn’t have to happen again. The body would do the rest, change the lives of those inflicted. Draco determined that if (when) he succeeded, he would call the potion Romulus.

 

The air was filled with the sound of Draco's furious scribbling. Something was wrong with the first potion. It wasn’t the clear light blue of the other two and Draco had no idea why. They had all been composed the same, but Draco fiddled with things like heat, time, and rest. His first cauldron had been on the highest flame and now it looked burnt.

After he determined it wasn’t salvageable, Draco vanished the contents of the cauldron. This wasn’t disappointing. He could make calming draughts, skele-gro, and polyjuice in his sleep. For his experiments he failed more than he succeeded. The other two were fine. He would wait.

To pass time, he busied himself on a custom order that bordered on the cusp of legality. Love potions were a grey area no matter how mild and he didn’t like them. Not for any sort of moral reasons mind, Draco shook off responsibility the minute he pressed a vial into a customer's hand. What they did with it was their business. He wasn’t going to lose everything he worked for for a fool caught up in fanciful illusions.

Besides, one had to be in a very good to brew something as delicate as a love potion. The emotions of the brewer played a monumental role in its potency, perks, and affects. Too much effort for the likes of the Romilda Vanes of the world.

But of course, when money was involved, specifically a sum that years ago he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at but now, could keep Runespoors open for a few months if no one chose to buy a single thing, delivered in full and up front by a discreetly ordered mail rental owl brown and boring, well, he was going to do as he was told no shame about that.

The one requested was no more than a not so cheap knockoff of the Veela allure, Attracto, mostly used by celebrities, but Draco had never made it and so, galleons notwithstanding, considered it a fun little challenge to pass the time while he waited for the next full moon to proceed with his remaining cauldrons of Romulus.

Draco pretended not to know that Crup Walker was just a poor disguise for who was obviously Celestina Warbeck. She was aging and her last record had flopped, so much so that the small but tidy music section in Flourish and Blotts didn’t even have them on the shelves. Instead they were up front, messily stacked on a table along with other things that didn’t sell well and needed to be rid of quickly, like low quality quills with matted, bent feathers, outdated Hogwarts editions, and books of goblin Haiku, heavily discounted and heavily ignored. The table sat right by the entrance. If someone picked something up and left without paying for it at the tills, that only meant the owners didn’t have to bother removing such a pitiful display.

Draco was sure the bent and broken quills cost more than, You Quidditched Me. Why?

The order reeked of desperation and he was confident that no matter how strong the allure, Warbeck’s problems would not change. He was a potioneer not a miracle worker. Ha.

“Master will be needing these.” A jar of pickled newt eyes floated over from across the room.

“Thank you Fritz.” Draco said as he deftly caught the jar. He opened it with a grimace. He prided himself on only using ingredients that were top notch, even if they meant meager dinners and thinner robes. But some were still disgusting to handle. He hated the wet pop of cartilage when his knife cut into them before they spewed their jelly onto his deeply etched cutting board.

But needs must. A calm settled over him when it was like this, silent except for the sounds of cutting, dissecting, peeling, the tinkle of pixie grains he poured in his scales to weigh a precise portion.

  
It was hypnotic, the unhurried pace of which he worked.

Severus had always insisted that quality always trumped quantity. There was no rushing in potions. It required patience, precision, and most of all, perfection.

 

Thoughts of the War and it’s aftermath fell away to something more simple. Dedication. He could brood all he wanted upstairs in his flat; about the aftermath of his childhood , his dead father, the place that had once been his home, the feeling of cold and death during the Final Battle when Voldemort wrapped his arms around him. Draco never felt any relief greater than when he walked down the rickety stairs to brew.

Hours passed by like minutes. When he cast a Tempus, he was unsurprised to see that he had worked well past lunch and into a good portion of the evening. Fritz was nowhere to be seen, but the obsidian vials in the corner glittered like monarch jewels.

He bottled up the Attracto into seven vials but his eagle owl flew off with just one wrapped in a neat, leather parcel and more than a few cushioning charms. It was always nice to have a back up supply even if no one else would order it.

Draco wasn’t hungry, but when he went upstairs he found several takeaway boxes on the table. Fritz was settled on the corner of his bed with his own takeaway box, a pair of what looked like pink chopsticks poking out from the top.

“Chinese again?” Draco asked.

Fritz shook his head. “Jamaican.”

“Then why are you using chopsticks? And where on earth did you Caribbean cusinine on this dreary rock?” Draco changed his mind about being hungry. The aroma of spiced meat was making his stomach growl. He peered over the spread of jerk chicken, sweet plantains, meat pies, and black rice and beans.

The last time Draco ate anything similar he was six. The memory of a little blonde boy splashing in crystal teal waters as his parents watched from a beach of white sand paler than their hair flickered in his mind before he dismissed it.

“Fritz is finding anything worth finding.” The elf told him cryptically.

Draco accepted this without complaint. He knew it to be true. He made a plate and sat next to Fritz. The elf was already in his pajamas and he had on mismatched socks. They were ugly pajamas, yellow with fat brown ducks that quacked anytime Fritz shifted.

They ate in relative silence until Draco couldn’t contain the question he’d been wanting to ask for over a year.

“Why are you here?”

Pink chopsticks paused, but Draco pushed on. “Why are you helping me? There were four of you left, five if you count the elf my father lost to Potter.”

“Dobby.” Fritz supplied. He had small, sharp teeth that tore into his meat patty. Crumbs littered his quacking thighs.

Draco couldn’t be bothered with names.  
“And? What do House Elves do that have no house to keep? How'd you get that shite bargain anyway, serving wizards for all eternity? I suppose I never cared enough to research before…” Draco hummed. “Is there some sort of elf village you ran off to? Back to the Land of the Free Elves sequestered deep in the forests of Wiltshire? Why aren’t you with your brethren?”

Perhaps he had gotten ahead of himself. The elf was looking at him as if he realized for the very first time that he was dealing with a crazy person. If Draco had gotten a tad eccentric over the years, it was no business but his own.

For a while Fritz did not answer. When he did, it was as calm and as refreshing as a cool spring breeze.

 

“Clothes is just being clothes. Master is always Master.”

“But I wasn’t your Master.” Draco insisted. He forked at his food. In his haste, a soft caramelized plantain flew off his plate and made a splat as it hit the floor. “My father was wasn’t he? I never thought it would work you know, giving you all those lace socks. Weren’t they just horrific? I can’t believe they used to dress me in those.”

Fritz did his lazy shrug. “Elves is always answering to the house. It decides who is Master.”

What an odd response.

“Then by all accounts that would have been the Dark Lord.” Draco snapped bitterly. His father hadn’t been much of a Lord back then, that may have very well been true. Humiliated and wandless, his father had skulked the halls of his own home like a crup that had had an accident on brand new carpet, unable to be seen in the public eye and not trusted enough to go on dark missions.

Watching his mother had been worse.

If the Dark Lord treated his father like an unloved step child, then his mother was a marble statue, to be admired and revered unless he said otherwise. Oh how he loved dangling that over his father’s head, treating Narcissa like a princess, much to the jealousy of Bellatrix, until she realized the precariousness of her sister's position.

Despite being a raging, murderous cunt who clearly had no problem killing off her own family, for some reason Bellatrix had a soft spot for her sister, and it was more often than anyone cared to admit that once Lucius lost all respect, the wrath of Bellatrix was only thing that kept his mother safe from all the unsavory characters that had roamed around.

It was the only time Draco could ever imagine feeling grateful towards the psycho bitch. Merlin knew that love didn’t extend to his father. Oh how she teased and taunted him mercilessly. Draco had always been cautious around her, he was smart to do so, but she only treated him like a nephew. That was, until it dawned on her that Draco did indeed know that they had captured Harry Potter during Sixth year.

Draco hated the man for causing three nights of hell at the end of his aunt and uncle's wands if for nothing else. Draco must have been hyperventilating, because the next thing he knew, his head was between his knees and Fritz was rubbing his back. His plate of food lay scattered and broken on the floor.

“Master should be taking this.” Something pressed into his hand. A Calming draught. Draco let out a bark of hollow laughter.

“I’d rather have brandy.”

“Master has been drinking all the brandy.” The elf replied disapprovingly, no doubt remembering the last time a maudlin Draco had indulged himself right into the toilet bowl.

“I remember having quite a bit of help.” Draco retorted, but he took the potion anyway. This was his life now. His cleverness hindered by Post war beauracracy, with nothing to fill the mundane days with but his work and the company of a large eared sour puss.  
Oh how the mighty had fallen.

“Fritz is having a strong stomach.” The ‘unlike you’ was unsaid but heard nonetheless.

Draco looked longingly at his ruined dinner. He wasn’t very hungry now, but it was the best meal he had seen for weeks. Fritz seemed to realize this and disposed of the mess before shuffling over to the small kitchenette to begin making tea.

Draco didn’t have many friends nowadays.  
Blaise and Pansy had moved abroad to Italy, together no less, Goyle to the United States after finishing a five year stint sentence in Azkaban. The Greengrasses and Notts were still in Britain, but Draco had never been close to Theo or Daphne in school. The only people he talked to from Hogwarts were oddly Neville Longbottom, the boy he used to bully, who now supplied his store with organic goods and plants and even odder Luna Lovegood, the distant cousin that had been kept locked in the Malfoy dungeons. She sent him apples for his birthday every year.

Draco never would have imagined being friends with an elf, but when he read out loud the article from that morning as the elf poured steaming Darjeeling into worn, but well loved porcelain cups, Fritz did not disappoint.

“Shameful it is destroying an ancient and noble house like so.” The Elf sniffed, and the glance he gave Potter's picture was perfunctory and fleeting. There was no adoration in his gaze at all. “Some people just can’t be having nice things.”  
Draco hid a smile. “My mother told me stories about Aunt Walberga and her childhood home. I don’t think she ever described it as nice. Macabre actually, if I remember.”

“Fritz is not knowing. Tibby was being the only Black Elf.” His large eyes grew sad.  
Tibby had been his mother’s elf, part of her dowry when she wed his father. She was the elf that baked Draco cookies, chased him across the gardens to make sure he never fell into the pond of foul mouthed grindylows and shiny, sleepy koi. He remembered her stern words when one of Draco's governess’s thought he was failing at Latin, and how she snuck him out from the boring parties his parents used to host only to stuff him full with decadent sweets. It was her fault Draco could never get enough of chocolate.

They drank their tea in silence . By the time Draco was ready to retire to bed, eyelids drooping and the draught buzzing nicely in his veins, Fritz had disappeared to wherever he went to sleep. To the Land of the Free Elves perhaps, he thought. He did not dream that night.

 

“I don’t understand.”

Draco sighed as he ran long thin fingers through flaxen hair. Attending to a stubborn Mrs. Copperknut was never ideal on a lovely afternoon, one that could be better spent enjoying ginger biscuits and tea on an otherwise slow day. There wouldn’t be a rush until that evening. The old woman clearly had no business brewing potions of any kind, but that didn’t stop her from bothering him.

“Nundu claws are a Class A ingredient Mrs. Copperknut. I can’t in good conscience sell you such unless you agree to put yourself on the required registry of purchase.” He explained. For the seventeenth time.

“And why should I? I’m not doing anything bad with them, they’re only for decoration.”

Draco wondered what she could possibly be decorating with killer cat claws.

“And I’m sure they’ll look lovely, only after you submit to the registry.”

Mrs. Copperknut huffed. “Slug and Jiggers would let me have them without signing over my soul.” Such dramatics. “They’d be cheaper too.”

“And I am more than happy to forward correspondence so that they may set some aside for you.” He twirled his favorite quill deftly between the fingers of his right hand as he reached for a piece of parchment with his left. “How many did you say you wanted?”

“Oh never mind that. Who knows if they’ll have them anyway.” Her twinkling eyes and knowing smirk moved the wrinkles in her face into something quite mischievous. “Word around the alley is you’re starting to put them out of business.”

“Runespoor's is doing well.” Draco said carefully, though he couldn’t help the tendrils of satisfaction that crept up his body.  
Slug and Jiggers were one of the many potion suppliers that had turned him down, back when he'd been aimlessly wandering Diagon Alley looking for any sort of work. Perhaps they would have taken him on if he still had Malfoy gold, even with the Dark Mark, but there was no use speculating. They made their choice.

Besides, it was true.

Runespoor's was doing very well.

The beginning of the Quidditch season had caused an influx of mail orders to arrive over the past couple weeks; skelegro, painkillers, liquid luck. Draco would always have a fondness for Quidditch. His best seller right now was not a potion or ointment but a simple oil, that kept the charmed wood of the broom shiny and attuned to the slightest touch from players. It was more of a liquid charm than anything, but people liked it, so he made it.

Mrs. Coppernickel snortled. It was the only way he could describe the sound of a hard boot crunching in wet gravel that poured from her mouth.

“Well is what I call a morning without my elbows creaking. I’d say you’re doing much better.” Her gaze turned shrewd. “A lot of people were expecting to see you fail you know. I wouldn’t have been surprised really, the last few generations of Malfoy men have all been successful but very delicate in my opinion.”

Draco wondered how old she was to even know of such untrue information. His grandfather Abraxas had been a hard man, stiff and chilly long before he had been rolled into his gilded coffin, placed at the end of a row of many others hidden deep in the Malfoy crypt. “I didn’t think you had the stomache for it. But then I saw that article in the Quibbler.”

Draco changed his mind. Mrs. Copperknut was a wonderful delightful woman. The article of which she spoke of was a piece he himself had written on the properties of Lionswood, and how it’s bark was an affordable tweak that could be added to tea or juice to rid the stomach of gryffin cramps. He also touched briefly about the Romulus project, hoping someone interested could help further his research.

“It was something I had worked on for awhile. I was afraid no one would hardly understand it, the intricacies of potion making and detailed terminology make for quite the read.”

“It was flowery.” Copperknut grunted. “I only read it because I was on the can. Suppose I shouldn’t have been so heavy handed on the sweet corn…”

“Perhaps we can work something out.” Draco pitched his voice higher to cut off information he really didn’t need to know. “I will sell you the claws. You will not have to “sign over your soul”, but if Aurors come knocking I will be providing the memory of this conversation so no funny business. Nundu claws are an essential ingredient for a multitude of poisons, the Bloody Weep for example which makes a person spew blood from their eyes.”

“Not to worry laddie, my husband’s already dead. Ain’t no one else worth spending the time or galleons to off even though it might been fun to watch.” Copperknut cackled.

Draco couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He allowed her to pick out her claws, three of them and she grumbled good naturedly as she slid over her galleons.  
“Robbery this is. The way you’re charging you could make do with a larger shop. It’s getting cramped in here.”

“Hogwarts term is right around the corner and little old women keep buying things they don’t intend to use correctly.”

“Those Phoenix feathers did make lovely plumes on my Sunday hat. I’ll be all the rage at the Autumn Gather Tea Party this year.”

“I expect no one else to have anything quite like it.” Draco smiled. Snape would have killed this woman for using Phoenix feathers as mere hat toppers. Mrs. Copperknut was clearly as extremely wealthy as she was nuts. Draco had no idea why she talked like a harbor whore, but her robes, while dated, were of Malaysian silk and her wizened hands were curled from the weight of several gold rings. Far be it from him to tell her how she spent her money which was apparently purchasing rare and dead animal parts only to desecrate them respectfully as they swayed on her person.

Mrs. Copperknut bid him a good day disguised as a threat to come back if the claws were no good. Draco opened his mouth to ask why it mattered, since she wasn’t going to use them, but she was already bustling out the door.

The next few hours brought in several more characters that frequented his establishment.

  
He gave Dalia Bagman her weekly dose of fertility potion and wished her good luck to which she replied with a saucy wink that kept his cheeks red long after she had left. Brugo Lentz came by to glower at him, as he always did, before purchasing Liver Spot Not, as he always did. A group of men stumbled in, loud and raucous, asking for Hangover potions so that they could drink more. It wasn’t yet 3 o clock. Madame Vyria stopped by for soothesayer dawn, which he did not have, but could. She would return in a week.

Draco was labeling expiration dates on salamander legs when the Aurors walked in. He sighed. He should've known better than to be complacent with what had become a fairly brilliant day, for the standards of what would he considered brilliant had dwindled over the years.

“Gentlemen, how can I assist you?” Draco greeted as he looked up. One he didn’t recognize, but boy did he know the other. He had only just seen that face staring up at him from yet another speculative article in the Prophet this morning.

“Malfoy.” Potter gave a nod of his head. “This is your shop?”

“I tend to think so seeing as how I supply, run, and I don’t know, own it.” He replied stiffly.

Potter's partner threw him a glare. He had a massive, muscular frame that reminded him of Goyle. This man was much harder, not that he would ever describe Goyle as “soft”. “Permits are up to date I’m assuming.” He growled.

“ Of course. You’re more than free to check if that’s what you came here for.” Draco gestured to the wall behind the counter, where his credentials were squared in wooden frames decorated with small painted carrots. Luna's doing he supposed. They weren’t like that when he put them up and the only thing Fritz could paint was a picture of quiet disdain.

The hulking Auror moved over to the counter to do just that, leaving him and Potter staring awkwardly at each other.

“I read your article in the paper.” Potter said. His green eyes were still vibrant behind those horrific glasses and he had put on quite a bit height and weight. Of course the years would be kind to the Savior when Draco struggled to rub cream into the blue bags under his eyes every morning. He was almost of a height as Draco, he noticed, quite sourly.

“I didn’t know you could read.” The words left his mouth before he could clamp it shut.

Potter chuckled and shook his head, messy locks falling into his eyes. He’d grown it long. It should ridiculous on a big, bad, Auror, but somehow Potter made it work. Like everything else in his life.

“Still snarky I see. Look, we're not here because you’re in any sort of trouble.”

“Oh really? Why then?” Draco looked pointedly at the other Auror who was roaming the shelves suspiciously, as if Draco was stupid enough to leave illegal wares in plain view even if he had them. When he pulled out his wand and cast an unsubtle Finite on a neat labelled row of flobberworm bile, Draco rolled his eyes.

At least Potter had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Royman.” He snapped. “Were supposed to meet Fletcher in a few. Why don’t you go on ahead, I’ll take of things here.”

“Sure boss.” The Neanderthal grunted. As he turned towards the exit, his shoulder nudged Draco’s and he made a scene of brushing it off as he went out the door.

“Sorry about him. He’s new and bit overzealous.” Potter relayed much to Draco’s irritation.

“No need to apologize for other people Potter.” Draco spit as he rubbed his own shoulder. “it isn’t the first time your lot chose to renege on their duties just to hassle me nor will it be the last.” Draco’s lips were pinched and white at the audacity.

Potter didn’t seem to like that. “If anyone is giving you trouble-“

“It will not be your concern. Now,” Draco spread his arms in mocking placation. “What can I do for Britain's finest?”

“Nothing for me , but you could help your cousin.”

Draco shrank back as if he'd been slapped. That…wasn’t what he’d been expecting. At all.

“My cousin.” He repeated flatly. He waited for Potter to elaborate.

“Yes. Teddy. He’s a werewolf you know, as his father was. He’s also a Metamorphmagus.”

“As his mother was.” Draco paused as realization bloomed. “You’re here about the Romulus.”

Potter turned away. He seemed to be intently focused on a table stacked with pewter cauldrons and his hand brushed over their tops. Draco made note to disinfect them later.

“He’s a good kid. Mischievous and bright. Merlin knows I never had that much energy as a kid, not that I would have been allowed to. ” Potter’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, yet it seemed to fill the storefront.

Draco heard rumors of Potter's less than stellar childhood. It should have given him satisfaction, but it didn’t. Draco had a perfect childhood and now look at him. Toys and hugs didn’t shape people into good human beings, but surely it helped. Or didn’t.

“I'd always wondered about him. He’s my heir did you know that? A little boy that I’ve never met.”

If Potter was surprised by that information, he didn’t show it. He kept fiddling with the cauldrons and Draco was beginning to become irrationally irritated. But then again, when had he ever thought rationally around Potter?

“We didn’t think he would turn.” Potter said. “He’s always been a bit cranky during the full moon and with his abilities, it wasn’t uncommon for him to grow fuzz after seeing a puppy when he was a baby. But a few months ago..” Potter trailed off.

“He turned for the first time.”

Potter snorted. “Almost killed me he did. We were stupid. Andromeda and I had been so sure that he wouldn’t turn, after countless Mungo’s visits. It’s hard, locking a crying child in a fortified room because of “just in case”. We grew careless. He got out of bed that night, said he was feeling antsy. He turned right before our eyes. If I hadn’t been there…”

Draco swallowed. The situation couldn’t have been easy. “Aunt Andromeda is alright then?”

“More than me. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself, for turning my wand onto Teddy. I know he’s your blood, but he’s my godson. What hero am I when I want to hex anyone who even looks at him wrong?”

Potter sighed and Draco almost had a fit when he leant his not so scrawny anymore weight against the table corner. Honestly, how could he feel appropriately sympathetic when Potter was sullying his goods, nudging cauldrons and rods away with every shift of the arse?

“I saw Remus as a werewolf, closer than I should’ve.” His chuckle was without humor, laced with a sadness that was reflected in his eyes when he looked at Draco again. It felt like being Petrified.  
“I knew it was hard, but I never imagined how painful it was, going through it until I saw it happen to Teddy.”

There was an odd lump forming in his throat. Draco forced himself to be professional.

“If you do indeed know how to read Potter, you will know that the intent of the article was to highlight the properties of Lionswood. Romulus is experimental. Even if it did work, it would take years to get Ministry approval.” For me, Draco thought but he didn’t say this.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about the Ministry's approval.” Potter hissed.  
Oh.  
Despite being decked in the ruby red robes of the Aurors, Potter’s stance was defiant. There was bad blood there. He tucked away this information for later.

“Nevertheless. I sincerely hope you haven’t come here looking for a miracle. I have no voice or weight to carry even if it proves successful and even then, it’s a remedy, not a cure. My article was to spread awareness. I’ll not use the last Black as an experiment for what may be a futile endeavor.”

“So it doesn’t work.”

“I didn’t say that.” If Draco’s lips could be pressed more tightly together they would have drawn blood. “You do realize that Romulus is not for sale. If it was, I’d be carted off to Azkaban within the hour. It requires permits, legislations , hell support. It’s an idea, an experiment, nothing more. I can’t go off shoving needles into werewolves on the chance of maybe.”

“You’ve no volunteers then.”

Draco wanted to break his nose again. Of course he didn’t have volunteers. Not yet at least. If all went well, perhaps that would change.

“And Edward Lupin won’t be one. When Romulus has been proven successful I promise I will notify you, Auror Potter.” He spat the title like phlegm.

Potter’s face did something strange. “You’re different.” The way Potter moved towards him was sinful. No longer was the scrawny boy who’d managed to defeat every odd set against him. Marching towards him was a man.

“This surprises you?” Draco asked, pretending he didn’t feel an odd heat flickering at his spine that was trying to rise to his face.

“Not really. You were always clever Malfoy, it’s nice to see you using it for good.” Draco must have looked properly miffed because he added quickly, “I’m sure Severus would have been proud.”

“That’s Snape to you.” Draco’s eyes glinted steel in the reddish light cast from the orbs that floated lazily above their heads. Another Lovegood addition. “Don’t think I don’t know about the risks he took saving your sorry stubborn arse.”

Potter actually laughed. Laughed!

“You sound just like him. Look, I didn’t come here to be a nuisance, but any possibility to help Teddy, I’ll find it. Right now, it seems you’re the only one who’s doing anything. Hermione’s been causing waves in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but like you said, those things take time, even for her. There’s definitely nothing in the works to help werewolves.”

The gaze Potter threw him was imploring but still somehow defiant.

“And I’ll suppose you’ll do your part.”

“My part?” Potter asked confused.

“Yes. Your Part.” Draco marched back behind his counter to assume an illusion of being busy, and looked over inventory logs. The letters and numbers may have as well been written in Sanskrit.

  
“You're the Savior of the Wizarding World. Granger's making “waves”. I’ve been busy Potter. As much as I’d like to work intently on Romulus, my customer's have needs. I am only one brewer. I don’t have the time to pitch to Research and Development at the Ministry. Seeing as who I am, I doubt I’ll make it past the receptionist office. However with certain support…” he trailed off but Potter looked pleased, if a little exasperated.

“I don’t like using my fame.”

Draco snorted.

“I don’t.” Potter insisted. “Except for a good cause. There’s not much research and development and experimental potions in the Auror Department. Hermione will know who to go to, her boss most likely. There’s not much I can do but talk to Kingsley.”

“Oh yes, he’s only the Minister of Magic. Shame you don’t have friends in higher places.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “ He’s a good man that’s fought alongside Remus. He wont be biased. He’ll listen.”

“If you say so.” An idea struck him. “You could do me another favor.”

“What?”

“My cousin's blood.”

“What?”

“Blood. I only have a few samples of werewolf blood. It would do wonders to have another, especially since Teddy is a Metamorphmagus. Did you know that Lycanthropy is actually blood disease? Metamorphmagi is a trait that is carried through blood as well. Perhaps there is a link there, however small. I won’t know until it’s under the microscope.”

“You have a microscope?”

“And test tubes, racks, and beakers, and Petri dishes. I even have a small fritterator though I’ve charmed it to run off cooling charms.”

Potter gave him that weird look again. He wished he would stop. Potter seemed ready to say something else, but then Fritz appeared with a loud pop, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

“That better be filled with dahlia scorpions.”

“That they being. Fritz is not liking Morocco very much. Very hot.” He said as he carried them over to Draco who peered inside eagerly.

“Morrocco!” Draco exclaimed. “I just saw you this morning how on earth could you go such a distance?”

Fritz shrugged. “Megenmeyer's was not having any. Fritz was having the time.”

That didn’t answer Draco's question, but fuck it. He’d been looking for the scorpions for weeks. There had to be at least seven. He noticed a few were still alive and he quickly set the bag aside. It wouldn’t do to get stung.

 

Potter was staring at Fritz as if he’d never seen an elf before although, that may have been because Fritz had chosen today to deck himself in a floral pink kimono and a wilted lily perched right atop the smooth center between his ears. He even had on a pair of getas.

“Fritz This is Harry Potter. Potter, Fritz.”

The elf gave a bow and somehow Draco knew they’d be having sushi tonight. Without Fritz, he surely would have been eating porridge and cream most of the time.

“Fritz is knowing of Harry Potter.”

Potter was still staring. “You’re wearing clothes.”

“Fritz is knowing that too.”

“Fritz is a free elf Potter. Honestly why are you surprised about that? After all he wasn’t the first elf to be freed from serving the Malfoy's. Father grumbled about that even on his deathbed.”

“There were more?”

“Of course. The Manor was adequately staffed. I believe Fritz was once the gardener. It’s probably all gone to ruin now.” Draco said, a bit bitterly. The gardens had been his Mother's favorite. Now Ministry property, he doubted they had someone on payroll to upkeep it, the cheap bastards.

He levitated the bag of scorpions and floated them to the back room to deal with later. Fritz, never much of a talker, began to bustle about the shop and proceeded to ignore them both. His wooden shoes made tiny, stacatto clicks on the stone floor.

“How were they freed? Your elves?” Potter asked. Merlin, how he wished he would change the conversation.

“I gave them my baby booties. Greyback…” Draco swallowed, then tried again. He felt hot under Potter's intense scrutiny and he tugged on the high collar of his robes. Awfully itchy. “That wolf kept terrorizing them. And there were so few left so… I….well… They just disappeared and I don’t know where they went. Fritz is being very tight lipped about that. He’s the only one I’ve seen since the War. He’s been helping me here at Runespoor's.”

“So he’s your employee?”

Draco couldn’t help but laugh. “As if I could tell him what to do. Fritz doesn’t just sweep the floors and tidy up shelves. He assists me in brewing often and helps with the owl orders. As you can see he’s more reliable than these so called suppliers. He’s not my employee, he’s a partner.”

There was a small sniff in the corner, but when Draco and Potter glanced over, Fritz was buffing the cauldrons Potter had put his grubby hands on with a rag vigorously with no hint that he had heard.

Draco was prepared for a lot of things. He was prepared for naysayers to spit vitriol in his face anytime he chose brave the streets of Diagon Alley, for the Ministry to hold up his licenses and give him a hard time just because they could, for Goyle to randomly show up lean and thin as a Greengrass. What he wasn’t prepared for was a Harry Potter beaming at him.

“Stop smiling at me Potter it’s disturbing.”

 

“I’m not quite sure I can help it.” Potter replied in a soft tone Draco didn’t feel he deserved given their history. There was a necklace around Potter's neck with a pendant of a Phoenix that flared red. It must have grew warm because Potter rubbed at it. “That’s my call. I’ve got to get back to work now.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day.” Draco retorted drily.

Potter turned to leave but at the doorway he paused. “You should see him you know.”

Draco didn’t need to ask who. Before he could come up with an acceptable answer, Potter was gone in a flash of red robes.

 

It took Draco a full week to write a letter, reaching out to his estranged Aunt. He wrote his Mother first, who offered no help other than that her sister was fond of tulips.

After writing and burning several parchments, he was finally able to send off a small missive along with a hefty bouquet of blue tulips, which Longbottom had generously provided free of charge, but only after Draco was forced to listen to the man excitedly explain the high demand for Tentacle Snaps as he was dragged on a never-ending tour of his prized greenhouses. The one that housed African and South American flora was especially trying, leaving Draco flushed and grumpy as his heavy black robes clung wetly to his skin, his hair darkened gold from the sweat, while Longbottom swanned about in short sleeved breezy robes that showed off his well toned arms and legs while still keeping his fatbottom. Honestly.

A few days later, he received a reply, no an invitation, to a dinner. He wasn’t proud to admit that after two hours of rereading the damn thing in disbelief that he was scared.

Dinner at Andromeda's. Her sharp, small writing was so unlike the soft, flowing script of his Mother’s, curt and to the point. It read like a demand, not an invitation, but Draco could understand why. Next week would be the full moon. She must’ve have been tense.

Draco had to go through several old trunks to find something decent to wear. The robes he wore nowadays were black, practical, and quite frankly boring. The few ornate sets he used to own had long since been sold, back when Draco went months without selling a single potion and needed the money to stay open. Eventually he found a set that had survived, silver silk lined with a row of tiny jade buttons.

He dressed in them carefully. A bit flashy, but they would do.

Fritz didn’t share the same sentiments.

“You is looking like Lucius.” He said and by his tone that wasn’t a compliment.

Draco ripped them off immediately.

Frustrated , he was just considering how to write a polite cancellation without seeming like a coward when Fritz, irritated by his half naked pacing disappeared so loudly, it sounded like a crack of thunder. Twenty minutes later he reappeared back into the small flat with a soft, lumpy parcel Draco knew to be clothes.

“Fritz you’re a lifesaver.” Draco sighed gratefully.

“Master is needing new clothes anyway.” Fritz sniffed, and puffed out his chest that was decked in a child's Chudley Cannons orange shirt tied at the waist with a sash Draco recognized as his old Slytherin tie. It clashed horribly with the elf's green skin. All of Draco's relief flew out the window. Fritz had zero sense of fashion. What if he had gotten Draco a pink kimono or worse, quacking duck pajamas?

It turned out to be neither, but they were still confusing.

“These are Muggle clothes!” Draco held up a garment between thumb and forefinger.

“And you is going to a Muggle loving dinner.” Fritz pointed out with a glare and a bit of disdain , an indicator of him once being a Malfoy elf with all their prejudiced views and traditions. “This isn’t being the Minister this is being your Aunty.”

That didn’t mean Draco had to be pleased about this. He adorned the strange garb, trousers of a stiff, durable dark blue washed fabric that hugged his legs snugly and a soft, cream colored jumper he was sure would wash out his complexion, but when he looked in the mirror, it…it wasn’t so bad. He might’ve have even liked it a little. His legs seemed to go on for miles and the sweater was comfortable enough he supposed. Fritz didn’t provide Muggle shoes, thank Circe, so he made do with a pair of dragonhide boots, which tied up nicely over the trousers that reached to his knees.

Usually he kept his hair tied at the nape of his neck and hid the ponytail underneath his high collared robes, so that it wouldn’t get it in the way when brewing. He hadn’t realized it’d gotten so long. He puzzled over it for a moment before deciding to braid it in a way he had seen his Mother do often in his youth, a French plait, though a few silken strands resisted this confinement and settled down instead to frame his face. Instead of tucking it, his braid fell over one shoulder.

“Well?” he struck a pose. Fritz stared at him intently before nodding.

“Master is acceptable.” A raging compliment coming from someone that looked like a pumpkin had thrown up.

“This is going to be disaster. Aunt Andromeda is going to hate me. He is going to hate me. I don’t know how to act around children. They’re gross, disgusting little things. What if I make him cry? Should I have brought a toy? Oh why didn’t I think about that? Who knows what these cretins like nowadays? I couldn’t possibly afford a broom, is he even large enough for one? How old is he even? What if this is all a horrible trap? The pot roast will be poisoned and Andromeda will bury me under her tulip garden!” Draco wailed and flung himself onto his bed that groaned in protest.

Fritz snickered. He was clearly enjoying the show.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me this is serious! Oh, why did I listen to Potter? That fool has turned my life upside down.”

And he had. Potter may have left for Auror business after his ill disguised inquisition and stupid smiles, but his appearance hadn’t gone unnoticed. Over the past week, Draco had been busier than ever. Mail orders had pouring in as well as walk in customers, all eager to buy from the place the Chosen One frequented.

  
Potter had been there all of five minutes.

It was infuriating, but Draco wasn’t about to turn down galleons and needed if unwanted publicity. He was even considering hiring a part time storekeeper to so that he could focus on his brews, which were flying off the shelves. He hadn’t a good long sleep in days.

The blonde man allowed himself a few more moments to brood as the secondhand on the clock ticked by, gathering his wits while an unsympathetic elf whistled cheerfully, reading what looked to be the new edition of Witch Weekly, with a scantily clad star witch on the cover who kept puckering ruby lips at Draco whenever his eyes caught it.

When the clock read five til his demise, Draco decided this was as good as time as any to leave, it wouldn’t do to be late. Memorizing the address in the letter, he Apparated away.

He popped into existence a couple hundred yards on a walkway that led to a neat cottage with blue shuttered windows and flowerbeds resting on their sills. As he strode up, he prepared what to he was going to say.

“Hello, Aunt Andromeda. No, no that’s too familiar.” Draco cleared his throat and tried again.

  
“Good evening Mrs. Tonks. I trust you and little Edward are quite well?”

  
By this time, he’s made it to the door. He raised a hand, poised to knock, then let it fall again.

  
“So sorry about dear Auntie Bella boffing off your entire family, if it makes you feel any better she got her licks in on me too. I say it’s fitting she met her demise at the hands of a Weasley, though perhaps I should have done it if I weren’t at school and utterly terrified. Still these things do seem to be better left to family wouldn’t you agree Arrrrgh!”

Just as Draco threw his hands up in frustration, the door opened and who would answer but Bellatrix herself.

 

No, not Bellatrix. The hair was dark brown lined with grey, the eyes devoid of the manic gleam and the lips were bare of carmine paint. To cover up his shock, he thrust the magnificent bouquet at her, if only to cover her face for a moment whilst he regained his composure.

“No it doesn’t make me feel better and Aunt Andromeda is fine.” The tulips said curtly before they shifted aside and revealed heavy lidded eyes, but the slight tilt of one side of her mouth indicated she was amused.

  
“Won’t you come in?” She turned into the house as silently as she had answered.

Draco felt like a fool but followed regardless.

He was led into a living room with light blue walls and too large floral furniture for the space, but it was warm and inviting.

  
Tantalizing aromas flooded his nostrils from a kitchen he couldn’t see. It was a bit cluttered, a large grandfather clock stood in a corner ticking away, painted with little gold moons and stars. Pictures frames crammed the mantle above a low burning fireplace. Many of them were of a woman in various states of age, animation, and hair color.

His cousin, he thought with a swallow. She hadn't been particularly beautiful, at least by Black standards, but the fact she had been a Metamorphmagus and never altered her face to fit what society considered attractive, instead using it for Auror duty and to goof off, he found that much more impressive than mere looks. He took the time to look at the rest of the photos carefully, touching none out of respect.

  
There was a strange large box in the corner that shocked him, where moving portraits were engaged in an argument about who exactly was the father. A man pulled out a piece of paper and read the results calmly, but the reaction was anything but. He stepped neatly over toys that littered the soft cream carpet but he was still distracted by the box, where a fight of epic proportions began to commence, the wife clawing at the eyes of a wayward husband, and in his distraction, caught the toe of a dragonhide boot on the edge of what may have been the beginnings of a well made castle.

  
The blocks (and Draco) went tumbling down.

The air filled with peals of laughter. Draco was left staring at a ceiling light with wild spinning wings as he laid splayed out on the floor before something blue impeded his vision.

“That was wicked!” the blue streak said and it bobbed and weaved so much that Draco's eyes strained to follow the motions. It made him dizzy. “You fall like a tree!”

“Be nice Teddy.” He heard Andromeda say. She was perched on a pink wing backed chair with a smirk familiar yet strange on a face that wasn’t his Mother’s. Her voice was smooth and low. “pick up your toys and take them to your room.”

“But it was almost done!” the blue thing wailed. “We hafta finish what we start, you said so Nana!!” That was the sound of petulance.

“So I did. And it was very nice. Perhaps the dragon that destroyed it can help you.”

This was fair. “Im Draco.”

“I know. You re my cousin.”

And that was how, with no further introduction, Draco sat on the floor, building a castle with colorful blocks that connected to each other with hard circles and grooves. He puzzled over them, but Blue, no Teddy, excitedly barked out orders and Draco complied.

Things were finally beginning to take shape when the fireplace flared green and Potter stumbled through.

“Oh.” He said eloquently when he spotted Draco on the floor.

“HARRY!” Teddy raced across the room and flung himself against Potter’s legs. His blue hair changed quickly to black and became decidedly more unruly.

It was one thing to know he was a Metamorphmagus, and another to actually see it in action. “What did you bring me?”

“Teddy.” Andromeda admonished but Potter only laughed. It was a rich laugh, smooth and baritone and warm and for some strange reason Draco felt his cheeks heat. To be caught so uncouthly amongst a pile of Muggle toys, it wouldn’t do.

“Oh I may have something, but you won’t get it till after dinner.” Harry threw a grateful Andromeda a conspiratory wink. He knew very well how distracted the five year old could get.

Teddy pouted for a moment but then he brightened. “Draco is my cousin Harry. He fell and broke my castle. He’s clunky!”

Draco sputtered with indignance at this declaration and huffed even more when his Aunt corrected the child that is was, “clumsy.” Such betrayal from blood.

“I can assure you that I am neither Potter.” Draco picked himself and his dignity up from the floor. Gracefully. “This floor is a death trap.” To prove this point, he deftly avoided a toy train that suddenly sped past, tiny black smoke billowing from its cute little stack. Draco had one just like it as a child.

Potter didn’t respond. He was doing that thing again, staring at Draco with his unnerving green eyes. Oh, why were they so green? It was horribly unfair, when his own were practically colorless.

“Your hair.” So the brute could speak. Draco straightened his shoulders.

“What about it?”

“It’s er….very long.”

“Those are fine Auroring skills Potter, the world is lucky to have you.” Draco then proceeded to ignore the bane of his existence. He shuffled in front of Andromeda awkwardly for all that she paid attention. No, she was looking at Potter with amusement, as if something had suddenly struck her funny.

“I suppose we can all get rid of some of this awkwardness by proceeding to dinner?” she asked as she stood. Her dress though of modest neckline, was sharp in shoulder and hip, a bright ruby fabric that reminded him of fresh spilt blood. His perhaps. “I’ve made pot roast.”

Draco gulped. This was it. The beginning of the end. Would he live long enough for dessert? Would he even taste it as his throat closed up? “That sounds wonderful.” He smiled, unconvincingly, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s.

Luckily the parade to the small, but cozy dining room was filled with the excited chatter of a five year old, oblivious to the tension amongst the adults.

Andromeda disappeared through a doorway to the kitchen while Potter gestured for Draco to sit, which he did, quite stiffly, perched on the edge of his chair as if the seat would suddenly grow carnivorous teeth. Potter, the uncouth cretin, slouched comfortably in a spot across from him.

Teddy, to his satisfaction, clambered in the chair next to Draco, but that quickly changed once things began pouring from his mouth, talking about things Draco knew nothing about. Finally, he asked something the man could answer.

“Why’s your name Drayyyy co?”

“I am named for the dragon constellation in the sky. It’s an old tradition of the Blacks. Do you know your mother’s name?”

Teddy nodded solemnly. He had the high cheekbones and pert nose that ran on his Mother’s side, but his eyes were deep and round and brown that glinted amber whenever he shifted his head.

“Her name was Nymphadora, but she hated it.”

“I don’t see why. Nymphadora is a distinguished name.”

Potter snorted. “And she was anything but.”

“Regardless,”- Draco cut his eyes at Potter for the interruption. “Nymphadora is also a constellation. Have you ever seen it?”

Teddy shook his head.

“Well you’re in luck. Her stars should be bright tonight. I’ll have Fritz bring over my telescope that you may use if you’d like.” Brown eyes grew wide as galleons.

“Really?” Teddy asked.

Draco tilted his head. “Of course. At some point you can see all of your ancestors. Orion, Cygnus, Articurus, Regulus and Sirius.” Bellatrix, he added silently, but he didn’t need to point that one out. It was, ironically the brightest star of them all.

“What about my dad?”

“ There is Lupus, though it’s very dull this time of year. It’ll be months before the skies will allow you to see it. But, with a little patience and a quality telescope you could, in time.”

“Lupus means wolf.” Teddy told him solemnly.

“You’re very intelligent aren’t you?” Draco couldn’t help but be impressed.

“That’s very nice of you.” Potter said quietly as if it were surprising that he could be so.

Draco waved him off. “Call it a gift, I’m far too busy nowadays to do any good stargazing. It used to be my favorite thing to do as a child.”

“Mine as well.” Andromeda had returned with several dishes floating behind her that settled themselves neatly on the table. There were buttery dinner rolls, potatoes au gratin, a robust looking salad, and of course, the dreaded pot roast. Draco narrowed his eyes at it.

“Everything looks great Andy!” Potter chirped as he began to pile his plate up high.

“Oh it’s nothing.” I’ve never been the greatest cook. Nymphadora and Ted were gluttons for Chinese takeaway, hamburgers, pizza and the like which suited me fine. I spend most my time in the garden.” She began to serve a portion for her grandson. “Be sure to take from the left side Draco, the right is very rare.”

Or unpoisoned.

“Oh I like rare beef.” He didn't, but he carved himself a few bloody slices anyway to be polite. Surely, his aunt wouldn’t risk poisoning her own grandchild, who tore into his rare pot roast with relish, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s.

Draco had enough tact to ignore the concerned glances his aunt and Potter traded with each other. To make his plate seem full, he filled the rest of it with salad. Lots and lots of salad.

Potter immediately began spouting off about his most recently solved Auror case. No doubt gallant and mind blowing, wand ablaze and multiple medals earned judging by the way Teddy hung on to his every word, but Draco wasn’t listening. He was too busy picking at his food.

  
Raw beef and lettuce. Pfft.

He had no idea what a humbugga or a pee-sah was, but he was certain it was better than this.

His thoughts trailed off to the boy sitting next to him, hair rapidly changing between colors of chestnut, black, platinum, and blue. Could Romulus work for him? Would Romulus work for him? In all of history he didn’t think there was anyone who had been a Metamorphmagus AND a werewolf.

He cursed himself for his ignorance. This was something he should have researched as soon as he found out that Teddy had transformed.

There was another letter he sent out earlier in the week, one to Ukraine, where a rogue pack of werewolves were known to reside in the deep and lonely forests.

The old country had little to no laws concerning weres as long as they kept to their parts of the forests, away from Muggles and their buffet of livestock. Of course there were ways around that. Draco figured there would be the best place to send out word about his potion and those interested could volunteer.

There had been no response.

He proceeded through the rest of dinner silent and pensive, occasionally making the appropriate, “Ah yes” and “hmms”, when necessary. He was nibbling on an odd shaped carrot when he heard his name.

“Malfoy?”

Draco jerked, and covered his surprise by stuffing a forkful of dry romaine in his mouth. He had decided to forego the dressing; balsamic, which seemed to be bubbling menacingly in its slender glass bottle.

Everyone was looking at him.

“Are you enjoying your meal? You haven’t touched your roast.” Andromeda inquired politely as her own fork raked trails in her potatoes. “I did warn you that side would be rare.”

 

“I am sorry. I haven’t been invited anywhere in years and I’m afraid my social skills aren’t up to par. I find my thoughts keep trailing off to work.” He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard, he was sure his nails left crescent marks on the aquiline slope.

“You look like you’re about to bolt Malfoy.” Potter said. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Potter seemed a bit worried.

“I do not. While I am grateful for the repast, all roasts and potatoes aside, perhaps we could get over such formalities and focus on why I am really here, for young Edward.”

Potter and his aunt grew silent again, but Teddy pouted.

“No one calls me Edward. It’s Teddy.”

“Don’t frown like that, it'll leave you lines.” Draco parroted the words he’d heard from his mother (and father) for years. “I want to ask you some questions cousin and I want you to answer them as honestly as you can alright?”

Teddy nodded eagerly as Draco tugged and pulled on his wand that he stuck in his left boot to unshrink his quill and Parch-o-Book, an unfortunate but genius invention of WWW, and he could feel Potter’s smugness even though his eyes never left his unfortunately favorite writing tools.

“I hear you have a fuzzy little problem Teddy. Am I correct that you turned into a wolf recently?”

The boy frowned. “I don’t ‘member. Yes?”

“Perhaps we could discuss this after dessert, when Teddy is sent off to bed.” Andromeda insisted.

“I know that he is young and that it might be a difficult conversation for all parties involved, but it must be done. Any information you and Potter can contribute will no doubt be valuable, but he is the werewolf. Only he can tell me how he felt.”

Andromeda didn’t look too pleased, but she subsided and Potter nodded for him to go on.

“It was really hot and I didn’t wanna go to sleep.” Teddy told him. “Nana gave me a popsicle but it didn’t help.”

“Was it cherry or orange?” Peppering inane questions throughout the nitty gritty was a good tactic to use on children.

The question cheered the boy up and he giggled. “Berry!”

“I don’t know many wolves that like berry popsicles. Are you sure it wasn’t venison flavored? Or rabbit?”

Another laugh. Even Potter cracked a grin.

“Nooooooo. That would be yucky!”

“If you say so. I know you don’t remember much about the transformation itself, but can you recall how you felt when you woke up? Were you tired?”

Another nod. “I slept for a whole day!” That wasn’t surprising, unless of course if it was Greyback who never seemed to sleep. Surely now, he was getting his due rest in Hell.

“And the restlessness, the aches, they finally went away didn’t they?”

“I can vouch that he bounced back much quicker than Remus ever did after a full moon.” Potter piped in.

Interesting, though that only could have been because Teddy was a child and carefree. Lupin had walked around as if the entire weight of the world had rested on his shoulders. It was possible, and maybe even miraculous, that an easier change was a lucky perk that came with Teddy being a Metamorphmagus.

“It’s true that Teddy's recuperation after he shifted was less harrowing that what I would have imagined for him.” Andromeda said. She was watching him carefully.

Draco liked that. Shifted was an excellent term that acknowledged but did not villify the change of a werewolf. It was clever and he decided he liked her.

What she thought about him however, well.

Draco clapped his hands. The crack of palm meeting palm brought Potter to attention, whose gaze seemed to be strangely stuck to the end tail of Draco's braid.

  
“I hope you all know this is wonderful news. First transformations have been known and recorded to be the hardest and most painful for a werewolf. I’ve done a lot reading up on it.”

This caused Potter to snicker and mutter something that sounded like a “blonde Hermione” under his breath. When he caught Draco glaring, he tilted his head in an unconvincing show of innocence.

Somehow, someway and someday, Potter would pay for that little comment.

Draco spoke on.

“It may sound strange, but I think... it could be possible that being a Metamorphmagus might somehow help him control Lycanthropy much better than the average witch or wizard. I really won't know until certain comparisons can be made.”

  
“Comparisons?” his aunt asked.

“Indeed. I’ve recently procured some werewolf blood that I’ve been studying the through a microscope. I’d like a small sample from Teddy. With your permission of course.” He hastily added when Andromeda narrowed her eyes.

“That’s quite a thing to ask for.”

“It is.” Draco agreed solemnly because it was. There were a lot of Dark things one could do when they had somebody's blood, even the tiniest drop.

“I wouldn’t be so brazen if not for the time constraints we have upon us. I’ll need at least one more lunar cycle to bathe Romulus in before I can tell if it’s successful. Finding someone to see if it truly works however could take much longer.”

Much much longer. What was he supposed to do after he found a volunteer? Stand in a corner with a clipboard, scribbling out notes while hoping not to be completely eviscerated?

Draco never thought about it before, but this heavy project of his would require him to be around a lot of werewolves, or more importantly, in attendance when they made the change, so he could study the side effects and results.

Then there was the matter of accidentally poisoning someone, a concern of the highest, given he was attempting to turn something fatal into something good, like brackish sludge into sparkling water, or lead into gold.

Honestly, he probably had a better chance of convincing St. Mungo's to use the killing curse as a form of merciful euthanasia for patients that were in pain and dying anyway than what he had taken on. He took a few moments to recite what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck, over and over in his head before he could talk again.

“For next week, a traditional batch of Wolfsbane will have to do. I already have some prepared, though it’s a bit diluted given his size. The only real thing that poses a dilemma is where Teddy can transform. There has to be somewhere he can run free and get used to his new skin without notice or danger.”

“I’m afraid my cottage is a bit small.” Andromeda murmured. Teddy, already bored with these particulars even if they were about him, had already slipped from table and into the kitchen making the obvious noise of someone sneaking into a cabinet for biscuits they hadn’t been given permission to eat.

Another time, perhaps he would have been scolded for this, but his Aunt seem relieved that he was distracted from discussions that could ultimately decide on how easy or hard it would be to live his life with his affliction.

Whatever the outcome, even if Romulus failed, Teddy would obviously be taken care of and protected. He was the son of heroes, and a Black sister was his grandmother. He also had the Savior of the Wizarding World in his corner, and by default, the Weasley’s, fans that would change their suspicions about werewolves just because Potter said so, and everyone else that was too righteous or unconcerned to ever let a small thing like Lycanthropy bother them.

Teddy already seemed smart for his age. Properly nurtured and cultured, the kid was already intelligent, maybe even a genius. Yet another reason Draco would be keeping an eye on Potter. He may have been a big, bad, Auror now but he was still stupid.

“Why not Grimmauld Place?” Piped in Potter. “I figured I could knock out a few walls upstairs-"

“Haven’t you done enough damage to the poor house of my ancestors?” Draco snapped, severely fed up. The Prophet article flashed through his mind. “Knocking down walls! Of all the- you’ve already tried to burn it to the ground!” Draco felt incensed.

“Hey that was an accident!” Potter exclaimed.

“As were the reporters being blasted away?”  
“I didn’t blast them!” The other man argued before faltering. He grumbled to himself for a moment before trying again. “Not on purpose at least. I only meant to do a warding charm Hermione taught me, but I must have put a more strength behind it than I intended.”

“I’ll say!”

“Harry’s been having a bit of fluctuation with his magic lately.” Andromeda supplied helpfully. Oh so helpfully. Potter threw her the most betrayed glare Draco had ever seen so he knew he had to pay attention to this. The wounded look bounced harmlessly off a pointed shoulder of her severe dress, subdued and ignored as she continued. “The fire happened when he was sleeping.”

Draco promised himself that he would be on his best behavior tonight, a night where he would attempt to mend familial relationships that had been broken long before he'd been born.

But circumstances had changed.

For once, Fortune was smiling down at him. If Potter thought he, of all people, was going to let something like this go, this intrigue, this ammunition, he had another thing coming.

The minute dinner was officially concluded, Draco would descend on Potter with a viciousness he’d last felt in school, smarmy, obnoxious, and very very nosy. Potter would pull out all of that awful hair before Draco was done with him.

He politely moved on to other, safer topics, contemporary ones, avoiding the war and it’s immediate aftermath. Potter was acting like a brat, sagged so low in his seat his eyes were level with the edge of the table, mulish and even better for Draco, fucking quiet.

Draco was genuinely interested in getting to know Andromeda, honored that he was even given a chance to do so. It must be hard, he thought, to sit there, entertaining a coward who's choices ultimately led to the death of her family, choices that had left Teddy an orphan.

He appreciated the kindness. Here was someone who technically never raised a wand in battle, but had been thoroughly involved in the war and detrimental to its outcome.

Draco suddenly felt that his mother should be here, sitting across from her sister, to see how much they both had changed, but when he tentatively hinted at such a thing in his last letter to his softly exiled Mother, he had been floated through endless, poetic lines about the beauty of Peru, and how as a little girl, she’d always wanted to go there.

This was also where she was currently and conveniently vacationing, in a resort nestled in the downtown of Arequipa or so he assumed, he had stopped reading after the parchment had rolled onto the floor with Germanicus in the corner of the room, chest heaving with the exertion of flying miles with a burdening load of bull.

Draco treated the poor owl to what would've been the equivalent of spending the night in a luxurious Roman bathhouse, fed delicately and catered, an apology of upmost proportions that saw Draco two seconds away from donning a toga and fanning a giant palm frond over his head. He even conjured up a shallow bath, where the owl had a nice soak and splash, the water warm with a faint scent of lemon. Germanicus flew away the next morning fat, happy and properly spoiled, back off to where was most definitely not bloody Peru.

It wasn’t mother’s way to think he was stupid.

 

Growing up, when Draco was caught doing something his father considered an act of rebellion, his mother had always been the one to always see through it.

  
Even though there were a lot things she didn’t understand about him, like how she or his father could spot an old clock sitting on the mantle in an unused parlor, with no thought of it except for maybe a quick wonder about how old it was and how much it was worth, but the same clock a six year old Draco would remove with care, wiping a missed spot of dust on it’s face with the edge of his robe, before turning it around to tackle the back panel equipped with a stolen wand and a butter knife from the kitchens that he blackmailed a house elf for, when he'd caught her in the west wing, dabbing a small drop of his mother’s favorite perfume on the inside of her wrist.

  
Father was furious upon the discovery of his wand not being where he’d left it in his study, and after a stern meeting and the threat of worse punishment if it happened again, Draco had run off to his mother who consoled him in her own way and asked him about the clock, to which he explained excitedly of all the cogs and gears he had discovered inside while she wiped away his tears.

  
She had always accepted her son's endless urge to know.

Suddenly, he felt a need to right things between his mother and aunt, but he couldn’t do that if he was constantly focused on this tentative alliance with Potter, bound together by the need to assist a young boy that connected them, circling each other like wary and territorial jungle cats.

Hopefully all of his goals would someday come to fruition.

He summoned Fritz, which was more of a polite inquiry, like dipping a toe into a pool of odd elf communicatory mojo. Fritz, accustomed to his odd requests, barely blinked an eye when Draco asked if he could set up his old telescope in his aunts backyard.

She and Potter proceeded to engage in a strange blinking contest with each other long after Fritz had already blinked out of existence. Draco was about to inquire if they had both gotten something in their eyes, but then Potter turned his eyes on him, of the upmost green, and all of Draco's nosy bravado flew out of a tulip lined window.

“I really must be off.” Draco told Andromeda when she offered dessert. “I open at 6 and Fritz truly is not a morning person. He’ll scare off Mr. Dumbai, he doesn’t like anything green.”

Not the most eloquent of excuses, but after instruction to keep intact, from his Aunt, and a crushing hug from Teddy, he was free to leave. He bid them all goodnight, even Potter, with a short “Fare evening".

“Er, wait Malfoy. I wanted to-"

Draco didn’t run, but his feet made quick work of the cream carpet and the graveyard of toys and he was out the door before Potter could push up from the table.

He wasn’t running per sae, and before Potter could even begin catch up, Draco had already Apparated back to safety.

Or so he thought.

There was a figure standing outside the stoop of Runespoor's, draped in midnight hooded robes that concealed their face. The windows to his shop were pitch black, and there was no one else around, not at that time of night.

For a moment Draco considered the consequences of trans-continental Apparition, mentally calculated the distance between England and NotPeru, France most likely, but then the figure shifted, spotted him even though he could see no eyes.

He cleared his throat.

“My apologies.” He would have added ma'am or sir, but he couldn’t be sure of their gender. “Runespoor's is closed for the evening.”

 

In the still darkness, this shadowy figure could have been anyone from an off Duty Auror to an unknown vigilante, slighted by the recent success of a known Death Eater, no matter how pardoned.

  
Merlin knew situations like this had happened many times before. But Draco was confident with the strength of his wards. No one with ill intent towards his apothecary could get within ten metres, but there were loopholes to that. A Harry Potter level Aguamenti would work just as well, flooding him out of staple and home. But this wasn’t Harry Potter. Draco had left him standing in the doorway of Andromeda’s cottage, arm outstretched, eyes bright and reverent behind those atrocious glasses.

“We will reopen at 6am for all of your potion needs.” He recited, warily when the stranger turned to face him. Gingerly, he reached for his wand tucked in the sleeve of his Muggle jumper slowly, hoping the motion would go unnoticed.

It wasn’t.

The slight jerk to attention on his cream covered forearm made him feel inadequate, and for some reason, he knew that they recognized his fear.

“I only need one.” The robed figure finally spoke, and Draco was surprised by the soft , distinctly feminine voice.

He didn’t relax.

Bellatrix Lefuckingstrange had been his Aunt, tutor, and torturer and he came from a long line of women most chose never to cross, Malfoy, Black or otherwise. He had gone to school for years with the likes of Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and Daphne Greengrass, and even to that day, he couldn’t determine who had been scarier. He’d be a fool to underestimate any woman.

“I see.” Draco said finally, carefully. “I suppose I can take one order now. Cash only.”

The bark of laughter that came from the cloaked figure startled him.

“As If you need it. But I can offer you something far more valuable.” the woman removed her hood and Draco sucked in a breath.

He didn’t know what to make of what was revealed.

A young woman, heart shaped face and quite pretty if not for the horrible gashes that cut across her face from left brow down to the shadows of her neck. There was a perfect slash that went through an eye that was obviously useless, and Draco fought a shudder at how that empty socket stared at him.

Still, the long, wavy hair and her youth struck a sense of familiarity within him, so he decided to hazard a guess.

“You’re the Gryfindor girl. Brown. The one who…” Was unspeakably savaged by a fully turned Fenrir Greyback floated silently between them.

The woman nodded. “Yeah that’s the one. Good memory Malfoy.”

Draco actually had an excellent memory, which made it all the more horrifying.

“So that means that you, uh, you’re-"

“A werewolf?” Brown grinned savagely. “Hmm, I suppose I am. And you’re the little shit with the Romulus.”

“The name is open for deliberation.” Draco blurted. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What on earth possessed him to say such a thing he'd never know, but after an inspecting glance that Lavender Brown obviously thought unthreatening, Draco went against his Slytherin caution and ushered her inside.

Once the door had shut behind them and he cast the lighting to a soft glow, Draco took in the time to examine his former yearmate more closely. She glanced around the shop with bored but polite interest, her fingers grazing over some of the wares in an absentminded manner that contradicted her very presence.

Draco fought to clear his throat, a hand feeling useless against the hollow of his throat. “Would you care for some tea, while we-?” Draco began.

“Cant stand that kind of shite now.” Lavender grumbled, more to herself than him, but she seemed to snap out her reverie and throw him a coy look. “Sherry will do though. Goblin if you have it.”

 

Draco did indeed have goblin made sherry. A gift from Mrs. Copperknut who’d been the belle of the ball at the Autumn Gather. He bustled around to procure a glass. Broen paused by a table displaying three wooden containers stuffed with premier Rokennethsburry's stirring rods topped with silver baubles. In an unpremeditated act, maybe one of defiance, she leant over and flicked one so that it spun around wildly on its chain, unflinching at its touch.

Draco admired this show of steel. It must have stung, and not only a little bit. However the hand that accepted the glass of amber liquid was anything but.

This, this was Lavender Brown????

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfic. Very first chapter. Be gentle please. Hopefully with lubrication.


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